‘I don’t need proof, not when I have a story. I’m going to see Stephanie now, Jessica. I’m going to sit her down and I’m going to tell her everything.’
Jessica glared at him.
‘Now, I know Stephanie pretty well but I’m not her sister. So I ask you this: who do you think she’ll believe?’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she hissed. ‘It would destroy her.’
‘It will,’ he nodded. ‘But not as much as always having to look over her shoulder. Not as much as always wondering if her child is safe.’
Poe was used to violence but Jessica wasn’t used to being violent. He could read the warning signs as easily as if she’d shouted her intentions, so when she screamed and threw her empty glass at him, Poe ducked under it easily. He heard it smash against the exposed brickwork behind him. Jessica vaulted the couch and sprinted to the mountaineering wall. She snatched the Tenzing Norgay ice axe from its plinth.
She didn’t hesitate. Spinning round, she charged him, her face contorted with fear and hatred.
Because she was drunk, and because he’d been expecting it, as Jessica reached him, Poe twisted out of her way. His movement was subtle, little more than a feint, but it was enough. The swing of the ice axe whistled past his nose and Jessica stumbled past him.
The momentum kept her moving.
Out onto the balcony.
Where the top of her thighs hit the metal railing.
And like a tree being felled, she slowly toppled over.
But, as drunk as she was, she was still a mountaineer. She whipped out her arm and the tip of the axe dug into the floor of the balcony, tearing an inch-deep gouge out of the polished oak floor.
The silence was sudden and all consuming.
Poe stepped out and looked down. Jessica was hanging from the axe, swinging gently like a condemned man hanging from the gallows.
‘Help me,’ she pleaded. ‘I don’t want to die.’
‘No, you wanted your sister’s baby to.’
‘I’m sorry. I’ll tell her everything. I promise. Just help me up.’
‘Swear on your nephew’s life?’
Jessica nodded before she realised what he’d said.
‘Yes, you’re sorry now but it won’t last,’ Poe continued. ‘It might take a year, it might take five, but at some point your resentment will build up again. While you live, Stephanie’s child will never be safe.’
‘Fuck you then, Poe. I’ll get back up myself.’
She grunted and started swinging. Rocking really. Tried to build enough momentum to get a foot on the balcony ledge. With a foot and a hand she’d have the two points of contact any decent mountaineer could self-recover from. Poe watched. She came close a couple of times but she was drunk and quickly tired. Her mountaineering discipline kicked in and she stopped to conserve energy.
Her hands, wet with sweat, slipped on the axe’s shaft and panic gripped her. She glanced down. Saw only concrete and death in her future.
‘They’ll know you were here,’ she gasped. ‘Your fingerprints will be all over my apartment.’
Poe shrugged. ‘I was here Boxing Day. Of course my fingerprints will be here.’
‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Don’t let me die.’
Poe stared at her.
‘You wrote this ending, not me,’ he said.
And without another word he turned and stepped back into the room. Picking up the keys to the Range Rover he quietly left her apartment. It was late, and although he could hear movement he didn’t see anyone. He made his way down the fire exit and walked across the road towards the country lane where he’d parked the car.